Snowed In
by allonsyforever
Summary: What happened while Sherlock was "dead"? What happened when he returned to his only friend? And, more importantly, how will John and Sherlock deduce a mysterious letter signed "-M" that has arrived on the doorstep of 221B years after Moriarty's suicide - when they're snowed in? Eventual Johnlock, story continues through the background of the last three years.


Even outside in the snow, John could hear the careful violin music coming from apartment 221B. Knowing that something was up, he hurried inside, shutting the door against the wind and snow. Shivering, he nearly knocked over Mrs. Hudson on the stairs.

"Oh, it's Sherlock," she fretted, before he could even ask. "There was a letter at the door and now he's all upset, won't let me in" – she noticed the snow on John's shoulders. "Oh, dear, you must be freezing, poor thing, can I get you a cuppa?" John politely declined and moved past her, promising to try to cheer up his flatmate, knowing it was likely impossible, depending on whom the letter was from.

The whine of the bow on the strings of the violin grew louder as he opened the door to see Sherlock with his back to him by the window, playing, ignoring all else.

"Hello," said John, not expecting an answer, as he shuffled around the kitchen, putting away the groceries as he spoke. "Mrs. Hudson said there was a letter?"

A few things happened at once. The music stopped; John looked over at Sherlock in surprise, and then his eyes dropped to the coffee table between them, on which there was an open letter. He moved closer to examine it. It was short, and it was not handwritten or typed, but glued on in a disarray of cut-out letters. Sherlock didn't turn around, but he said quietly, "Read it." John picked it up. Sherlock turned and put the violin down, sitting in the chair across from the one into which John sank. The letter was, unsurprisingly, of a threatening nature, but vaguely so:

_I will burn you. –M_

Shivers ran down his spine. John's heart skipped a beat as he immediately associated the phrasing and the signature with the man who had caused Sherlock to go to such measures as faking his own death, thus also ruining John's life for several years. But – he was gone. Dead. Wasn't he?

Sherlock watched the emotions as they played over John's face: shock, anger, fear in a matter of seconds before the more familiar, instinctual mask of calm reappeared; however, a crease formed between his eyebrows. The letter brought back unpleasant, lonely memories. Sherlock knew this not because he had deduced it from John's expressions, but because he had felt the same way.

John took a breath and said shakily, "Do you think it's – him?"

Sherlock's frustration and rage were clearly on the verge of spilling out and it seemed to John that Sherlock had actually been waiting to talk aloud to someone – to him. "I don't know, John, I don't know. It certainly looks like it, but –"

"He's dead," John finished the sentence for him.

"I KNOW!"

John jumped as Sherlock stood and abruptly started pacing, gesturing widely as he spoke with his usual rapidity: "He's dead, John, I saw him put a gun in his own mouth. It's not him, not really. But then, what is it? Someone's idea of a joke? I doubt it. It's someone who was close to him, obviously. He must have used the phrase to threaten other people as well. We know he threatened those who were close to him because we overheard him threaten Irene Adler over the phone so clearly it wasn't just us. He must have used the phrase more than once, but John, John – this is one of his people, in his web, and they're – supposed – to – think – I'm – dead – John! How did they know – they're supposed to think I'm dead. And why sign it, _-M_? Why make me think it's _him_, when _I _was the only one who actually witnessed Moriarty's death?!"

He said all this in one breath, and his chest heaved as he searched John's eyes for answers, finding instead an enhanced reflection of his own fears. Sherlock realized that this was an issue of certainly equal and possibly greater concern for John, and he also suddenly realized what he had just said. "John," he began quietly, hesitantly, but John cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, just – don't" –

"I'm not going to leave again, John," said Sherlock quickly, returning to perch in his chair and leaning closer to his best friend, somehow finding comfort in his very presence. John said nothing, but he visibly relaxed. Sherlock continued, "But this _is _a problem and I need to think about it and I need to solve it, now." At the same time, they looked to the darkening window, outside of which, snow fell in an increasingly forceful wind. They weren't going anywhere, and nothing was going to be solved that night.

After a brief moment John said, "Let's just – look, I'm going to make dinner – you're going to eat," he added sternly, "and we can just handle this – calmly, alright? There's not much we can do about it right now," he said, looking out at the blizzard.

"Make whatever you want, I'm not eating," said Sherlock stubbornly. "I can't be calm, John, I need to know who's behind this – and we're bloody _snowed in_! Perfect," he snorted sarcastically. He fidgeted in his chair. John sincerely hoped the wall would survive the night, but he highly doubted that it would.

A short while later, John placed a bowl of hot soup and a steaming mug of tea in front of Sherlock, whose elbows were on his knees as he impatiently ruffled his own hair. He looked – sexy. Sexy? Had he, John, the self-proclaimed _not gay_ ex-soldier/doctor just thought of presumably asexual Sherlock Holmes as… sexy? He glanced at Sherlock's rumpled, curly hair and his anxious expression, which John knew was partially in concern for himself and decided that yes, he thought that his flatmate was sexy like this. Dangerous, certainly, frustrated, and yes, sexy.

Fighting a small internal battle, John came to the conclusion that this might just be something he would have to accept about himself. Maybe it didn't even apply to other men. He was fairly sure it was just the consulting detective. John Watson was unquestionably attracted to Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
